At that moment a change came over his face. It was as though he were attacked by great pain, as though indeed his body were torn with agony. His fists were clenched and quivering, his body became rigid, his face drawn and bloodless.
'Hark, what's that?'
'I hear nothing.'
'Yes, but listen—there!'
It was a curious cry I heard; it sounded partly like the cry of a seagull, mingled with the wail of a wounded animal. It was repeated once, twice, and then there was a laugh.
'I've heard that before, somewhere. Where?—where? It's back behind the black wall!'
I looked, and saw half hidden by a small belt of brushwood, a group of officers, and I could hear them laughing.
'Is that an Indian cry, Springfield?' some one said.
'Yes, there's a legend that it is always heard the night before there's a kind of vendetta.'
Springfield's voice reached us quite clearly, and I looked instinctively towards Paul Edgecumbe.